


Permission or Forgiveness (is it selfish to want both?)

by Lynx357



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: A bit ooc at the start, Angels and Demons are gender fluid in this, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enjolras being Clueless, Footnotes, Give them time, Good Omens AU, Grantaire being Sad, I’m not kidding about the slow burn, M/M, Pining, Reincarnation, Slow Burn, So there’s gonna be some pronoun switching, Unless I can’t think of any weird tangents to go off on, Witches, angels & demons, its 6000 years, seriously, shenanigans through history, they will become the characters you know and love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2020-05-13 03:43:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19243135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynx357/pseuds/Lynx357
Summary: Enjolras: an Angel and part-time RevolutionaryGrantaire: an Angel Who Did Not Fall So Much As Get Drunk One Night And Wake Up Without His HaloThis is their story through the ages, from the Garden of Eden to the Present day, featuring a motley cast of Humans, Witches, Angels, Demons, Horsepersons of the Apocalypse, The Antichrist, and a Hellhound.





	1. Eden - 4003BC

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Good Omens AU, by you don’t need to have read or seen it to understand the story - though I highly recommend both because they’re amazing. Now, if I make any mistakes in this, whether they’re spelling, grammar, religious, historical or other, please do let me know so I can fix it! I’m really not out here to offend people. Without further ado, Enjoy!

In the Beginning, there was a Garden. I am sure you are familiar with the story, but just in case, I shall remind you of the important parts. There was a man, a woman, and a snake. There was a very important tree, which grew upon it an even more important apple (or pomegranate, or even some other kind of fruit which no longer exists), and a rather over-the-top discussion about whether eating it was a good idea. To tell you the truth, that question has not been answered to this day, and possibly never will be, though it has been subject to vast amounts of speculation.

We all know what became of the man and the woman, gifted, or perhaps cursed with Knowledge. We all know what became of the Garden, despite it being Paradise and closing it off being a rather unnecessary waste of resources. A lot of people think they know what became of the serpent - most of them are wrong. But then, they also tend to be wrong about who exactly the serpent was; contrary to popular belief, the Devil would never stoop so low as to interact with humans in person - he was busy, and so he outsourced that sort of thing.

This tale will tell the story of the demon who took his place, and his encounters with another whose very long existence became inexplicably intertwined with his.

 

On the top of the wall surrounding the Garden of Eden, next to the Eastern Gate, stood an angel. His name was Enjolras. He’d been standing there for quite some time - indeed, that was his job. His beautiful face was carefully impassive, but his eyes were busily scanning the horizon, following the tiny figures of Adam and Eve, as they struggled against the backdrop of the first ever storm clouds.

“Well that went down like a lead balloon.” Said the snake.

“What?” Enjolras asked absently, still focused on the humans in the distance.

“I _said_ , that went down like a lead balloon.” The snake replied, a little impatiently. The angel nodded, glancing down at his companion, then did a double take as he realised exactly who - or rather, what - he had accidentally started talking to.

“Seems like a bit of an over-reaction if you asked me,” continued the snake, whose name was Grantaire, pointedly ignoring the wary look now being directed at him. (He’d been somewhat starved for equal conversation lately. He’d take what he could get, even including a prejudiced angel who was currently shuffling about in the way of someone who very much wishes to leave a situation but can’t, on the grounds that they have already committed themselves to it.) It seemed, however, that questioning the Almighty was an excellent way to distract this particular angel from its general discontent.

“An _over-reaction_?” Enjolras asked incredulously. “You managed to single-handedly get them kicked out of the Garden! You tempted them into going against the Almighty, doing the _one thing_ that they weren’t meant to do, and now there they are, out there, all on their own, with no food, no water, vicious animals all out to get them, and you know, poor Eve, she’s _expecting_ already...”

“Yes, yes, exactly!” Grantaire drew himself upwards delightedly, really getting into it now. He loved a good philosophical argument. (It had been this unfortunate habit that had caused his Fall in the first place - one minute he was the angelic equivalent of drunk*, trying to debate the Divine Plan with anyone who would listen. The next he awoke in Hell with the demonic equivalent of a hangover.**) “All that, just for Knowing the difference between Good and Evil! I mean, it’s not like they actually did any Evil, is it? They just learned how to see it. And anyway,” here, he began to look sheepish (quite an accomplishment for a snake, whose scaly faces are not really designed for emoting), “I didn’t exactly _mean_ to get them thrown out.” Enjolras blinked down at him, nonplussed.

“You... didn’t?”

“No! ‘Get up there and make some trouble’ the boss said, and I mean, there isn’t a lot of trouble to make - the world’s brand new! And it’s not like I wanted to kill either of them, they seemed like perfectly nice people, considering, so, forbidden fruit, I thought, can’t be too bad.”

“Hmmph.” The angel sniffed imperiously. “Shows what you know.” Epiphany sparked righteously behind his eyes. “Although, it does make sense. You being evil and all. Of course you’d choose the real worst option, just by instinct. In your nature, I suppose.” The snake narrowed his eyes.

“So sorry,” he said, in a way that suggested the exact opposite, “but it rather sounds like you just insinuated that I would have been better off _murdering_ one of them.”

A rather constipated look had taken over Enjolras’ face; in hindsight, his comment had been a tad harsh, but he could hardly take it back and apologise to a _demon_ , now, could he, even if he was good company. Instead, he simply stood there in slightly embarrassed silence, while the first drops of rain began to paint their way down the Garden wall. Satisfied that he had won their impromptu argument, the serpent coiled in on himself with a smug sort of air. As time passed the smugness faded; instead he began to worry that he had accidentally ticked off the first person who’d deigned to have an actual conversation with him since the Fall.

“Say,” he ventured, after several minutes of awkwardness, “didn’t you have a flaming sword?”

If anything, Enjolras’ face became even stonier.

“Yes.” He said shortly.

“What happened to it?”

“I gave it away.” Grantaires mouth fell open unattractively.

“You _what_?” Properly annoyed now about being made to feel guilty by a _demon_ , of all things, who then continued to pry into things that weren’t any of his infernal business, Enjolras flapped his wings in agitation, sending a spray of rainwater over the serpent.

“I gave it away! It’s not like I had much choice, thanks to you, is it? Like I said earlier, sending those two out into the world was a recipe for disaster, there’s all kinds of danger lurking out there, they’d be killed in two seconds flat, even with Knowledge, so I gave them my sword. A weapon and a heat source all in one, which is as much as I could do to fix _your_  bloody mistake.”

Very much cowed, not to mention uncomfortably cold, being a non-warm-blooded creature stuck out  in the rain, Grantaire had huddled in on himself, feeling very small in the face of Divine rage. Satisfied that his point had been made, Enjolras turned back to the horizon, still breathing hard from his rant, wings held over his head as a makeshift umbrella.

“Well... thank you. I suppose.” Murmured Grantaire. “For fixing things a bit. Makes me feel a bit better about... accidentally inventing Sin.”

At first, it seemed very much like the angel was going to keep on ignoring him. But glancing down at Grantaire from the corner of his eye, Enjolras felt himself softening a little. The snake did look truly miserable with the state of things. And angels were meant to be beings of forgiveness and mercy. With this in mind, he wordlessly extended one of his wings, shielding Grantaire from the rain.

 

*The angelic equivalent of being drunk comes from standing a little too close to the Light of the Almighty, leading to uncontrollable euphoria. It had become something of a game for young angels before the Fall.  
**The demonic equivalent of a hangover felt quite a lot like being charbroiled and then shoved through a blender.


	2. Mesopotamia - 3004BC

It was some time before Grantaire saw Enjolras again, although it would probably have surprised him to know how close he came sometimes - Heaven and Hell tend to go in circles around each other, like feral dogs scrapping over food, but with more Smiting and Razing and general Nastiness, complete with quite a lot of collateral damage.

At any rate, it’s very rare for angels and demons spend any time on Earth at all, and those that do have business outside of their respective home bases tend not to stay for very long. Angels come down to pass Divine knowledge onto the chosen few, or to lay waste to the unworthy. Demons will appear to whisper temptation into the ears of the populace, encouraging Sin. Once this is done, off they go back home, with two notable exceptions.

Grantaire and Enjolras were designated field agents, positioned carefully to watch over Humanity, and to report back the successes and losses of their respective sides.

You may be thinking that the world is rather large for only one being to watch over - you would be right in thinking that, but no one else wanted the job; angels because they felt Earth was too corrupt for them, and demons because they hated humans in general, and at least down in Hell you could torture them.

Besides, why waste time recalling the people you already had out in the field - may as well just tell them to stay put and save the trouble of filling out paperwork.

This suited Grantaire just fine. Hell was a dim and dreary place, with an upper management that placed a heavy emphasis on negative reinforcement.

Earth, on the other hand, seemed to have a great deal of interesting things going on all the time now that humans had spread out a bit and started to invent things like clothes and alcohol and cooked food.

Not to mention, when it came down to tempting and wiling, Grantaire tended to be very hard pressed to think up anything worse than what humans did themselves. So, rather than get overly involved, he just hung out aroundpeople and took credit for any of the awful things that they, for whatever reason, decided were a good idea, with a few demonic nudges here and there for posterity. 

Roughly one thousand years after the events in the Garden of Eden, Grantaire had been living in what would later become known as the Middle East for quitesome time. He wasn’t a snake any longer - or at least, he didn’t look like one.

Celestial beings are not bound by the same physics as humans are - indeed, they are not bound by physics at all. Their True Forms are indescribable; massive and alien, with multiple pairs of flaming wings and heads that closer resemble animals than humans, glowing rings that hold thousands of unblinking eyes spinning in dizzying circles around them.

For this reason, most angels and demons were given corporations* - physical bodies that could blend in on the Earthly plane, and save space when in Heaven and Hell.

In the Garden, it had made sense for Grantaire to be a snake; after all, there were only two humans on the planet at that point. A random stranger would have stood out quite a bit more than just another beast wandering through, even one that talked. Nowadays, animals that struck up conversations with you were considered far more extraordinary than a human you hadn’t met yet, so human was what Grantaire appeared to be, although a few snakelike characteristics had hung around. Dark scales dappled their way up his spine and across his shoulders, and in moments of high emotion, his eyes tended to revert to being yellow and slit-pupilled.

Recently, rumours had been finding their way through towns and villages about some madman called Noah who’d supposedly been visited by God. They said that he was building a boat the likes of which the world had not yet seen and had been rounding up pairs of every animal to put in it.

Grantaire was going to see what all of the fuss was about. Hell would probably send him over if he didn’t go anyway, so it made sense to go preemptively and save having to deal with Montparnasse, the liaison between him and his superiors. He was unpleasant and had a tendency to stick around for a bit and perform actual Evil when sent up to Earth. Normally on people that Grantaire knew.

Strictly speaking, he wasn’t meant to get attached, but spending a millennia on your own made you eager for company, which was something humans were surprisingly good at being. He’d become rather comfortable in his life lately; visits back to home office had become something of an unpleasant chore. This most likely should have worried him more than it did. 

The ship was massive, bigger than anything mobile Grantaire had ever seen mankind make before, which was saying something for someone as well travelled as him. It was also almost finished.A vast stretch of land stood between the ship and the nearest town, filled with pens and corrals, all containing animals. Grantaire wrinkled his nose as he approached - keeping that many living things in that small a space did not make for a pleasant aroma.

The road running parallel to the menagerie was worn down and dusty, and though people using it turned their heads to look as they went past, most of them simply continued walking, with the air of people which had been dealing with oddness for a long time and were no longer bothered by in.

One figure, though, stood still, directly facing the boat, garbed in the long robes and headdress favoured by women in this region. A breeze stirred up the dust and blew free a single lock of shining golden hair. Grantaire frowned. Blond hair was unheard of this far south, and even in the north he had never seen anything quite that colour - in fact, the only person he’d ever seen with hair that bright was...

“Enjolras?” The woman turned to look at him, lovely face brooding and unhappy. She had clearly been startled at being called by her name.

It was definitely the angel from the Garden - despite being slightly darker-skinned than before and decidedly more female looking**, Grantaire would recognise that scowl anywhere.

“I’m sorry - do I know you?” She asked, clearly striving for polite and not quite making it. Grinning, he shook his head, hardly believing his luck.

“It has been quite a while, angel.” He let yellow flash through his eyes for half a second.

“Oh.” Enjolras said unenthusiastically. “It’s you. Here to gloat, are you?” Grantaire’s smile faded a bit. Not really the reaction he was expecting. Not that he’d expected a warm welcome, per se, but he had hoped for another interesting conversation at the very least. 

“Gloat?” He asked, more than a little perplexed. “About what?”

“The _flood_ , demon, the Judgement of the Almighty.” Enjolras bared her teeth in a mockery of a smile, arms held out wide. “Congratulations! You’ve successfully corrupted the human race so much that the Almighty has seen fit to wipe them out! What do you have to say to that?” Her eyes bored into his, furious and expectant, blazing in a way that was almost painful to look at. 

When it became clear that no response was forthcoming, Enjolras shook her head, snarling wordlessly and stormed off, leaving Grantaire staring after her, numb with shock while his brain struggled to comprehend what he’d just been told. 

Blinking himself out of the haze he’d fallen into, and realising that his one chance of getting proper answers was currently doing her best to put an impressive amount of distance between them, he swore vehemently and rushed after the fuming angel.

“Wait - _wait_ , Enjolras, for Hells _sake_...” He dove in front of her, flinching backward from her raised hand, which looked far to smite-y for his comfort, and held up his own in surrender. “Sorry, sorry... what do you mean, wiping out humanity? How would that solve anything? No, scratch that, what did they even _do_?”

(Which was sort of a redundant question - after all, he’d been there for most of the doing of nefarious things, but even so.)

Enjolras ground her jaw, clearly debating the pros and cons of simply smiting him and being done with it.

Finally, she relented, though her face said clearly that she was not happy about it.

“My _superiors_ have informed me that demonic influence has become too prevalent in humanity and that they have fallen so far into Sin that they cannot be saved.” She recited tersely. “When the Ark,” and here she waved a dismissive hand at the mammoth boat, “is ready, Noah and his family shall board it, with two of every animal -“

“Hang on.” Grantaire interrupted. “Two of every animal? And all the others are being drowned?” Enjolras looked murderous.

“ _And_ ,” she continued through gritted teeth as Grantaire wondered what on Earth they expected all the predators to eat after all of this was said and done, “it shall rain for forty days and forty nights, in order to cleanse the unworthy from the Earth.”

Grantaire stared at her in horror.

“What - all of them?” He croaked. Two children  ran past his feet. He pointed at them a little frantically. “Even the children?”

He had friends on Earth. Not good ones - he lived too long for that, but there were always people worth knowing, wherever he went, and children were meant to be innocent besides. Blue eyes*** glittering with rage, Enjolras laughed bitterly.

“Oh, you know... just the locals. Just the top half of the  _continent_. So I hope you’re happy.” Stunned, it took Grantaire several seconds to realise what she was implying.

“Wha- this wasn’t _me_! I don’t tempt anyone like this - I don’t have to! They’re perfectly capable of doing awful things all on their own, I’ll have you know-“

“ _Yes_ ,” Enjolras cut in, viciously, “because now they Know what Evil is.”

Anger prickled under Grantaire’s skin. He narrowed coppery eyes, suddenly every inch the serpent.

“Oh yeah?” He hissed back at her. “And all of the war mongering, all of the violence, that has nothing to do with you does it? I mean, it’s not like you gave them a _sword_ or anything, oh no, they did that all by themselves, no Holier-than-thou interference at _all_.”

As soon as he said it, Grantaire knew he had made a mistake. Enjolras’ fury was _incandescent_. He had just enough time to think _oh shit_ , before she held out a hand filled with Divine power and _shoved_.

The sound of dripping water greeted him as he woke, along with the very distinctive scent of sulphur that permeated every inch of Hell.

“Whoo! Looking a little bit singed there, Grantaire. Trouble up top?” Came a snide voice. 

“Fuck off, Montparnasse.” Grantaire grunted. Smote. The angel had actually _smote_ him. You try and make some friendly conversation with your natural enemy, find out what the latest mad human scheme was for, and end up being blamed for all misfortune and banished. He’d liked that body as well. He’d managed to onto it for almost three centuries. Dammit. He hated wearing in new ones - they were always just a bit too unpredictable.

“Ooh. Tetchy. What happened then? Rare for a discorporation to have an _angel_ involved.” Sighing, Grantaire sat up, stretching out his wings. Demons were incorrigible gossips. Probably something to do with their natural tendency towards blackmail.

“I went to see what was going on with that big boat thing.”

“Oh yeah.” Montparnasse grinned, showing off bloodstained vulpine teeth. “That Noah guy. Chosen to live while all others perish.” Grantaire glared at the other demon.

“You know about that?”

“Some of the souls were gossiping about it. You know. Between screams.” His smile widened nastily. “Good job, by the way. Lord Beelezebub was right pleased. Said your presence made the world of difference up there. You might be up for a commendation.”

Grantaire forced a smile, feeling sick. Or, at least, what he imagined being sick felt like. Was that really all it took to corrupt someone? His presence? Suddenly all of his small nudges towards corruption didn’t seem so small. Maybe Enjolras was right about him being at fault after all. 

“Guess I’d better stay down here for a bit then.” He said, striving for casual. “If they’re flooding everything.” Montparnasse shrugged.

“No tempting to do if there ain’t any people. Sides, it’ll be a while before they’ve got your new body ready.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire murmured. Hell seemed like the best place for him.

 

*The wings that are depicted in the lore on angels are present, but spend most of their time tucked safely away in a separate dimension, only coming out when needed.

**Gender and race are not things that higher beings really bother with. They don’t adhere to human constructs, after all, and they all came from Heaven originally, so most simply take whatever form is best for them to blend in at the time.

***Like demons, angels tended to have some natural indicators of their non-humanness. Some angels had gold teeth or gilded skin, or multi-hued eyes. Grantaire had scales. Enjolras had golden hair and supernaturally blue eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire: hey, maybe we both screwed up, how about we share the blame?  
> Enjolras: absolutely not, die.


	3. Egypt - 1233BC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are a lot of vague references to ancient cultures in this chapter - I am not an expert, so if you see any inaccuracies, please, please let me know, so I can fix them.

After the Flood, Grantaire travelled. The higher ups down in Hell had been interested in the details of her* “battle” with their angelic Adversary in a way that was more than a bit discomforting. Luckily for Grantaire, they were too pleased with his “successful corruption of the masses” to be to upset, though they did heavily imply copious amounts of pain and misery if it became a common occurrence.

Wanting to avoid the emptiness of the “cleansed” area,given permission to explore the other kingdoms of the world, she’d headed south, to a vast landmass covered in desert and dried out grassland. The far edges held forests, but Grantaire avoided them, tired of rain.

The people who lived there were tough, skilled at prying sustenance from the pitted landscape, tapping unseen treasures from the earth around them in order to survive.

Grantaire had been fascinated by them and their talent with storytelling - tales passed down word-for-word by their ancestors, facts hoarded and preserved like moths trapped in amber. She had been regarded with suspicion - called spirit and trickster for the scales on her back, for the flashes of inhuman eyes, but left alone out of fearful respect for the most part.

It almost felt like home, this deceptively barren land filled with venomous creatures and the things that had learned to survive them.

Later, she crossed the sea to the next continent, long and tapering, edged on one side with mountains and holding a forest that stretched from beyond one horizon to the next, endless and vibrant and alive. Grantaire didn’t linger here - the lush greenery felt hauntingly familiar, mocking in its beauty.

In the north she found a dizzying variety of people; nomadic hunters who followed the long treks of bison, who wasted nothing of what they caught. Stationary farmers who grew grains and vegetables unlike any she had seen before. Fishing villages of people who learned the ways of the tides and the breeding season of fish.

Temporary tents made of hide, permanent houses made from wood, from thatch, from stone, no two tribes alike. A thousand stories, a thousand traditions, so many languages it seemed impossible even for her to learn them all.

It was a long time before Grantaire left America - for every banishment she received, there came also a welcome, a lesson, a hot meal. She did not stay long with each group, fear of tainting them chasing her onwards, and their fear of her strangeness became hard to bear the longer she knew them.

She came to covet the art each group cultivated - the coloured pottery, the polished beads of jewellery, the dyed material woven into bold patterns on cloth, paint casting images from life onto cave walls, carvings hewn into sanded down wood, miniature likenesses of animals shaped from brittle stone. Each one she took the time to painstakingly learn.

When time came for her to wile, to cause strife and chaos, Grantaire chose carefully; a rockfall over a usual campsite that revealed a hidden sinkhole, a sudden illness in the hunting group that kept them out of the path of a tornado, a mudslide that carried down nutrients, seeping into farmland to make the earth more fertile for the next year.

Eventually though, she once again moved on, through Asia, the empires building in the east, the reindeer herders in the north, the peace of farming villages, the bustle of the cities.

One empire had gained the widespread use of writing, though only for the wealthy, or those whose livelihoods depended on it. Far evolved from the crude picture drawings of Mesopotamia, whole words and sentences could now be strung together with elegant brushstrokes. Grantaire fell in love with the idea of writing, loved the poems and tales captured in ink on paper and silk, etched onto tablets of wood and stone.

Finally, around two thousand and five hundred years after the Garden, more than a millennia after the flood, Grantaire received a visit from Montparnasse.

“The forces of Heaven are interfering in human affairs back in the West. We need you  on the home front, keeping an eye on things.”

 

These days, she lived in Punt,** a wealthy kingdom neighbouring Egypt. She drifted through the city, staying in inns and visiting scholars. Hieroglyphics were a whole new medium of penmanship, which Grantaire was determined to master.

It was a warm and lazy afternoon, and Grantaire stretched out languidly on a low wall in a shady part of town. Despite no longer being reptilian, some parts of being a snake seemed welded into her bones. She’d always disliked the cold, which made her unpleasantly sluggish, and often, when relaxing, could be found drowsing happily in the sun. A low aura of menace kept unwanted attention off her.

In fact, Grantaire had become so content that she almost fell completely asleep.*** So when a powerful burst of angelic power swept down the street, it startled her so badly that she fell off the wall in shock, and leapt up, swearing angrily.

The ramshackle houses were no longer ramshackle. Instead they appeared brand new, walls smooth, roofs gleaming and actually watertight, the street in front of them devoid of potholes.

“What the...” Grantaire muttered. Disconnected from Upstairs she may have been, but she was pretty sure that this kind of intervention was not normal. Miracles were strategic, designed to awe and terrify. Repair work was decidedly not, and even if it had been, why would any celestial being bother? Holier-than-thou was quite literally in the job description.

Briefly, she considered leaving. Her last run in with an angel had ended painfully, making the idea of a repeat performance even less appealing than it would have been otherwise. But Punt had grown on Grantaire, these last few years. She had an apartment tucked out of the way near a lovely little bakery, and all of the busybody scholars at the library had finally learned to leave her alone with her studies.

The trail of random good will wound its way drunkenly through the city streets. Newly healed people streamed from a hospital, a bridge that had crumbled years earlier into the river arched proudly over the water, out of season trees bloomed voraciously. The more she saw, the more worried Grantaire grew.

Eventually, the beacon of ethereal energy reached a crescendo in the market square. People were calling out to each other and pointing, more and more gathering like gulls to rotting fish. Sighing, Grantaire cast a web of demonic influence out over the crowd.

GO HOME, NOTHING OUT OF THE ORDINARY HAPPENED TODAY. FORGET EVERYTHING YOU’VE SEEN. 

For half a second, the crowd stood eerily still and silent, then everyone dispersed, chatting  inanely about the weather.

Stood in the centre of the square was the angel, though maybe stood was the wrong word. Their naked outline blurred and shifted, one moment humanoid, the next flickering out of mortal vision, wings and wheels and fire searing Grantaire’s eyes, even brighter in the waning light of evening. They seemed to sway, disoriented, oblivious to anything happening around them.

“Hey!” Grantaire shouted. One hundred eyes blinked in her direction, then two, blank and empty and bluer than the sky.

“You again.” They murmured, no longer shifting in and out of human shape, but still otherworldly, blinding white wings curving from their shoulders, dark skin bleeding rays of light, making dappled pools at their feet, haloing their face in gold. “How odd. I was just thinking about you.” They smiled radiantly, aura pulsating outward.

“That’s nice,” Grantaire called back sardonically. “I don’t suppose you noticed that you’re performing spontaneous miracles?” Enjolras blinked at her unhelpfully. Of course she’d get stuck talking down an disassociating angel. Of-fucking-course. Grantaire groaned to herself, and tried again, attempting to modulate her voice into something persuasive.

“Do you think that you could stop?” The angel seemed to consider this seriously for a moment, then nodded at her amenably, and promptly passed out.

“Shit!” Grantaire dove forward to catch them out of instinct, heart thumping wildly with shock. It was like Enjolras had just... switched off. Somehow their golden head had ended up on her shoulder, digging into it in a way that would probably have been painful to a human. Their wings dragged downward in the dust, somehow managing to stay pristine. Grantaire gaped down at them. _What the fuck?_ She thought to herself. _Is this a mental breakdown? Can angels have mental breakdowns?_

“Why me?” She asked the ground plaintively.

 

Back at her apartment, Grantaire dumped Enjolras unceremoniously on her bed, and went to pull out a bottle of wine that she’d been saving for a special occasion, downing about half of it in one swallow before flopping down on the floor with her back pressed up against the wall. Not for the first time that evening, she considered simply discorporating the angel and being done with it.

But then she’d have to deal with moving city to avoid the backlash from heaven, and then Hell would get involved to reprimand her for being discovered by the opposition, which would likely involve a lot of terrible things happening to her, like fire, and sharp objects, and being forced to do paperwork.

Besides, smiting, or the demonic equivalent, really wasn’t Grantaire’s style No, she much preferred to have some fun with whoever had pissed her off. Wind them up turn them around and make them question their whole existence. That sort of thing most likely wouldn’t work with Enjolras, though, not to mention the fact that they were clearly a few hammers short of a toolkit at the moment. Not the sort of thing you go around provoking.

There was also the fact that Grantaire sort of liked Enjolras, against her better judgment. They cared about humans, far more than any other celestial being seemed to. They also managed to remind Grantaire of Heaven - before the War, that is - back when everything was bright and brimming with possibilities. It was almost certainly a foolish notion, but then nostalgia can be a real bitch.

Speaking of the not-devil, a moan sounded from the crumpled heap of limbs on the bed. Grantaire watched idly as they struggled feebly to right themselves, then grinned slyly to herself, deciding that she’d earned the right to be petty.

“MORNING SUNSHINE!” She bellowed.

“Argh!” The crumpled heap on the bed became a slightly-less-crumpled-but-quite-a-bit-more-bruised heap on the floor, which sat up in outrage a moment later. “What is your...” Enjolras flailed wildly for half a second, “ _problem_!” They finished, seeming furious with both Grantaire and their own insufficient vocabulary.

“Oh, careful, angel. That was almost a swear. Tsk tsk.” Grantaire snickered at their indignation, swigging more wine.

Azure eyes squinted at her, which she studiously ignored in favour of scowling at the wine bottle until it refilled itself, then flicked around the room as Enjolras pulled themselves to their feet.

“Where are we?”

“Earth.” Grantaire said, just to be contrary.

Oh boy, more glaring. How original. She sighed.

“Punt. My flat.” Oh, _there_ was that distrusting look. She’d been wondering where that had wandered off to.

“Oh, relax, I’m not plotting anything. But I could hardly leave you out there,” she waved her wine bottle haphazardly at the window, “wings out, ass out, no gender to speak of, could I? The humans would have had a riot.”

Enjolras glanced down at themselves as though they hadn’t realised they were nude, and tucked their wings away, almost bashfully, before settling on the bed with the sheet pulled over their legs, more out of propriety than anything else. It wasn’t like they had anything to hide at that moment in time. After a second, curiosity crossed their face.

“Why help me at all?” Grantaire rolled her head around to look at them, debating what to tell them. Screw it, she was too tired to think up a lie.

“I used to live in heaven, you know. I remember how fucking possessive they are. One dead angel, next thing you know they’ve wiped out your whole city and you’re a smoking crater on the floor, obliterated completely. Not my idea of fun.” For some reason, Enjolras looked a bit disappointed.

“Oh. Well, thank you.”

Grantaire barked a laugh, disbelieving.

“Are you sure you haven’t gone mad? Thanking a demon?” Enjolras ignored that, instead tilting their head and frowning slightly.

“What is your name? I never asked.”

Grantaire raised her eyebrows, even more sceptical. There wasn’t a precedent for any of this. Angels don’t perform random miracles in broad daylight. They don’t pass out in the street. And they most definitely do not make small talk with the fallen. Where had the divine wrath gone? The righteous warrior, come to deliver judgement on those unworthy?

“Grantaire.” She informed them. “Though why you’d want to know my name I’ve no idea.”

“Grantaire.” Enjolras repeated. They looked conflicted for a moment, and then. “Do you know Evil, Grantaire?”

“ _What!_?” Grantaire almost spat out her wine. Of all the ridiculous questions! “Of course I know Evil, you stupid... I’m a demon! I am Evil, Evil is me, the corrupt and wicked, the unholy tempter, vile and terrible to behold.” She spread her arms, wine sloshing, flickering a forked tongue out, teeth suddenly long and dripping with poison. “Isn’t that what you discorporated me for last time?”

“I could have smote you completely, you know.”

“Am I supposed to be grateful for that?!” Grantaire scoffed, incredulous. “You’ve got some nerve, angel.”

“That’s not- sorry.” They looked frustrated. Grantaire shook her head.

“First you thank me, now you apologise. You really have gone mad.” Scrubbing a hand through their hair, Enjolras hunched in on themselves, jaded and small.

“Maybe I have.”

Fuzzy with alcohol, Grantaire watched them, trying to wrestle down the questions bouncing around her mind like spring frogs, failed miserably, and groaned.

“I’m definitely going to regret this.” She muttered, leaning forward to shuffle clumsily into a cross legged position facing the figure on the bed. “What’s wrong? Why are you all...” she waved a hand at Enjolras’ general patheticness, “sad?”

Enjolras chewed on their lip, strangely human, and held out a hand for the wine. Grantaire laughed delightedly, handing it over, watching with amazement as the angel inspected the label and took a long draught, wrinkling their nose at the taste.

“Do you get any news from Egypt here?” Asked Enjolras quietly. Grantaire straightened, more serious now.

“You mean the plagues? Yes, we heard about that. Hard not to, trading has gone to shit the last few years. Mira down at the bakery lost a child one year, because there wasn’t enough money.” An odd look swept over Enjolras’ face at that, but vanished as Grantaire continued. “I take it you were involved?”

They nodded mutely. When nothing more was forthcoming, Grantaire snagged the bottle back but placed it on the floor.

“Did you free the Hebrews in the end?” She prompted. Maybe they hadn’t, and that had caused this bout of melancholy.

“What? Oh,” or maybe not, if that confusion was anything to go by. “Yes, they got out. They’re headed for Canaan now. All fine.” Throughly turned round and a bit irritated now, Grantaire squinted at Enjolras.

“Then what’s the problem?” The angel fidgeted uncomfortably with their hands, plucking at the bedsheet, digging one long toe into the floorboards. When at last they spoke, it was hesitant and shifty, guilt radiating off them in waves.

“Did you hear what the last plague was? What the Almighty ordered?”

“Why in the name of Satan would I have heard that? M’not exactly in contact with Upstairs, you know.”

“It was firstborn sons. We killed all the firstborn sons.”

Enjolras’ voice cracked audibly on the ‘k’. They looked so _distressed_ , anguish carving itself deep lines on their face. Grantaire was nonplussed, knocked off-balance by the turn the conversation had taken, floundering in uncertainty. She needed to be less drunk for this, or maybe much more.

“Is that what all the, the-“ Grantaire circled one hand in the air. “Fixing things was about? Penance or something?” The raw hurt brimming in Enjolras’ eyes was answer enough.

“But... they’ll go to Heaven, won’t they? Eternity in paradise?”

“That’s not the point!” Enjolras cried, leaping up to pace frantically around the room, uncaring of their immodesty. “They won’t get to grow up, or, or live their lives, to become who they could have been, who they were - meant to be. Heaven doesn’t change, Grantaire, not since the Fall! It’s stagnated, and no one else sees it because it’s all they’ve ever known, and we condemned thousands of children to it without even giving them a chance to be good on their own merit.”

Grantaire pressed her knuckles against her eyes, wishing vehemently for sleep.

“And!” Enjolras shouted, wheeling around to point at her maniacally as she leaned back from the finger brandished by her nose in alarm, “It wasn’t even their fault! It was the Pharaoh! Why kill them but not him!”

“Because it’s Heaven!” Grantaire said loudly. “You lot do what the Almighty tells you too, because it’s Good, and then you sing about it up on your clouds above everyone else.” Enjolras stepped closer, eyes filled with a terrified kind of fervour.

“Yes, it’s Good. But is it _right_?”

Grantaire felt suddenly cold, ice snapping along her bones, chasing out the haze of drunkenness, curling agonising fingers in her chest where Divinity used to sit.

A memory stirred unbidden from the depths of her psyche, of a vast presence, incomprehensible and blinding, of Grantaire, young and ignorant and curious, daring to ask “ _why_?”

“Be careful, Enjolras,” she warned lowly. “Questions like that are a very good way to get yourself into trouble.” Tension hung between them, brittle as thin-spun glass. Understanding rose up behind Enjolras’ eyes, and they shuddered and stepped back.

“Yes.” They said. “You... yes, alright.” Grantaire watched silently as they skittered about the room, out of place and disjointed. With visible effort, they pulled themselves together, facade of Heavenly indifference stretched tense across their face, and addressed the space over her left shoulder.

“I should be off. Tha- I mean... I’m grateful for the - for the wine.” Enjolras swallowed, and as abruptly as they had appeared, they were gone. Grantaire stared glassily at the rumpled sheets they’d left behind for a long time, thoughts tangled up in echoes of memory.

 

 

 

 

*Grantaire had been male presenting for a long time, because that’s what the body assigned to her had looked like and she didn’t care much either way. Now, faced with past mistakes, she wanted something new, to give her a fresh start. Some days, it even worked.

**Punt was Egypt’s main trading partner, so well known and so often visited that no one ever bothered to make a proper map of it - after all, what kind of moron would forget where to find it?

***demons did not need sleep. However, this did not mean that they couldn’t experience it, and Grantaire was fond of napping time away, whether “time” meanta few hours or several decades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras upon having one (1) rebellious thought: oh shit oh shit abort mission, I am Not Prepared for this, wait, that demon I met twice and tried to kill once probably knows some shit, I’ll go have a breakdown near them and hope they decide ask me about it. Yes that is Logical.


	4. Athens 543 BC

Enjolras is an angel. This is an irrefutable fact. Biologically, metaphysically, by the Law of Creation, Enjolras is an angel, and that will never change. Even demons, Fallen from grace as they are, burnt and twisted caricatures of what they once were, are, at the very core of themselves, still angels. 

A comparison could be made to frogs and toads;* you see, the wide subspecies of frogs also includes toads under its umbrella. All toads are frogs, but not all frogs are toads. The actual distinction between them is something that you will have to look up yourself if you are really interested in that kind of thing. 

This is how it works with angels and demons, despite the fact that both sides will do pretty much anything to dispute this and vehemently deny any lingering similarities. Like most things that are uncomfortably similar to one another - siblings, religious factions, warring middle-class suburban housewives - they both adamantly insist that they could not possibly be any more different, then storm off in great huffs to prove it.**

However, another irrefutable fact is that if you spend a large amount of time with a particular group of people you can't help but pick things up from them, and Enjolras, for better or worse, had spent thousands of years almost solely around humans. Now, that isn't to say that he has edged any closer to being Bad, as it were, nor that he has found himself being any more Good, for humans, when you get right down to it, are not really either. Some people will tell you that everyone is a mix of good and bad, and others will say that both things are simply a human construct invented to help explain away uniquely sapient behavior. But at the end of the day, beyond morals and philosophical discussions, humans, at heart, are curious.

Heaven's opinion on curiosity is quite clear these days. In the beginning, things had been very different; Heaven had been a place of light and laughter. Angels built new things; animals and plants and stars all constructed with delight and love. They raised their voices only in exulted songs and basked in the euphoric light of the Almighty. Questions were just another thing, no more or less important than any other. But then came the Great War. The very cosmos cried out as it was rent by the terrible screams of those who had dared to Question as they  Fell, burning from the sky. Some of the best and brightest of their siblings, cast out and corrupted, stripped of the love and light that encompassed angelic Divinity, their God-given names seared agonizingly away by the fires of Hell. 

For the first time, those that remained in Heaven felt the chilling hand of fear. Suddenly, consequences were something that one abhorred to think of, no longer that abstract concept of before. Orders from Above now carried the weight of worlds, the barest hint of dissatisfaction induced grace-curdling dread, and asking for anything became almost taboo. Each time Enjolras ventured Upstairs to give his reports, things seemed just that bit more cold, just that bit more empty. Songs that had once soared like swallows in the summer now echoed out like a military chant. Assignments which had once been taken up with joy were now hollowed out by the rigidness that came with them - each angel had once task and one task only, and they all radiated the same blank contentment, made more unnerving by its authenticity, as they went through the exact same motions each and every day.

Everywhere you looked you were met with bland white decor and benevolent smiles, offering benediction and kindly disapproval. If you asked Enjolras, he would tell you that he liked nothing more than returning home for a visit, and he honestly did not believe it to be a lie. The icy knot forming deep within his gut was something he ignored and pushed to the back of his mind, writing it off as probably being something that he had eaten.***

But humans. Humans were endlessly curious, Enjolras had found. The favoured creation spreading rapidly across the Earth, always asking why and how and what for? And then, if no answers were forthcoming, they would - wonder of wonders! - go and find out! Yes, more often than not the answers they found were wrong, or complicated, or led to a hundred more mysteries, but time and time again there also came such miraculous discoveries! 

Why should they live outside when there is shelter? Why have to find shelter when you can build it? Why use rocks when there is clay, when there is metal, when there is glass? Why throw when you can shoot, why walk when you can ride or sail, why be sick when there is medicine? Why limit your imagination to the Earth when the sky is open and full of stars? Even when faced with great risk, with the certain threat of pain, with the requirement of sacrifice, always, always, there seemed to be someone willing to make it. 

The Flood, Sodom and Gomorrah, the Tower of Babel, each were met with Divine punishment - for moral degeneration, or daring to reach for Heaven before their time, before they earned it, rather than the seeking of answers. Atheists, pagans, philosophers, all argued over the mechanics of Creation, pondered the true meaning of life, voiced out loud so many of the very same things that had led to the Fall. They received no resolution beyond what they themselves could come up with, of course, but neither did they face the horrifying repercussions that the demons had been met with. 

Enjolras had spent almost four millennia surrounded by people ravenous for the knowing of things, and, sure enough, it had begun to rub off.

There was no radical change of heart, no incredible epiphany - just a thousand insignificant happenings, lessons imparted unintentionally by the humans around him as they lived out their magnesium-bright lives. So slowly that he failed to recognize that is was even happening, Enjolras' mindset changed, tiny gears in his mind quietly knocking against larger ones, until the very face of his worldview had shaped itself into something new and dangerous.

It had been Grantaire who made him notice. Tucked away in her tiny flat in Punt, the demon's warning came like a bucket of ice-water, shattering the fragile peace that had built between them. The coldness of her eyes, the emptiness of her voice had hit the angel like a blow to the head; the results of questions like the ones just asked had been literally staring him directly in the face, and it had scared him. So Enjolras had fled, as through distance could erase the words, could prevent the question from ever being asked. 

Deep in the wild, far from civilization and the corruption it brings, Enjolras did some soul searching (so to speak). Newly, horribly aware of how much his time on Earth had changed him, he sat and waited for judgement. For the Hand of the Almighty to reach down and tear out his Grace, to fling him down into the Pit. It never came. 

After weeks of waiting, of holding his breath, of tirelessly reprimanding himself for being so careless, for letting his guard down so easily, he finally relaxed. Not completely, but enough to return to his duties, to continue his vigil over the growth of humanity, in all its successes and failures. Gingerly, like stepping out onto thin ice, prepared to leap backward at any moment, Enjolras began to ask some more. He sought out the scholars of the world, both those of faith and without, visited the burgeoning libraries in fledgling empires. Still nothing came of it. 

A theory occurred to Enjolras during his soul searching: maybe the Fall had been a part of the Almighty’s plan. Without the Fallen, humans would never have learned to exercise Free Will - after all, _having_ something and knowing how to use it are two different things, and without the Apple, nothing would have ever happened at all. If this were true, then Enjolras’ continued Divinity made sense; demons already existed, so there was no need to make more. Which also meant that Falling had mostly been an act of chance, rather than a true crime. A case of hanging around the wrong people, so to speak.

Of course, along with this line of thought came no small amount of guilt - Enjolras well remembered his judgemental disdain of Grantaire, that day on the wall, the way he had so easily dismissed the demon, simply for what he was. It said something, he thought ashamedly, that Grantaire had been unfailingly polite each time they had encountered each other, while Enjolras had managed to be both callous and sometimes outright violent.

If any of his fellow angels had asked, he would have told them that he stayed so close to these places of learning in order to encourage the growth of fields like medicine, law, art. It would have been the truth; just because he had a personal interest did not mean that he had abandoned his job. But they never did, and so, his enthusiasm for learning grew ever further, like a vine lovingly cultivated.

These days Enjolras resided in Greece. Athens, for all its flaws, was a font of new discoveries, with some of the vastest libraries on this side of the globe. Among the throngs of people arriving there to study, Enjolras was simply another face in the crowd. Very soon, he had carved out his own little nook among the bookshelves and settled in among the stacks, mountains of loose scrolls piling up around him. 

Soon it became a habit of the scholars to approach him with any new material, to strike up conversations about the newest things they were looking into. Enjolras found himself charmed by them, by their fervour for learning, by their eagerness to share their discoveries. Any projects that showed promise he gave a little nudge of divinity - a little extra luck to help them along. 

It was a hazy summer afternoon that a familiar presence made itself known. The halls of the library were quiet, and Enjolras sat with his back pressed up against the cool stone of a pillar while drops of sweat meandered their sticky way down his neck. He had been lazily re-reading the Iliad; despite it being fantasy, it had become something of a favourite. 

For all that factual papers interested him, he had found that fiction offered a surprising amount of depth to the way he thought about things - a glimpse into the mind of another person, undeniably different to oneself, allowed for far more understanding of the motivations of other people, of what drove their actions. For a being so inescapably different to humans, books written to tell stories rather than to simply relay information were invaluable in making Enjolras feel less alien, less separate, and so had become a staple of his interest.

As Enjolras read, the back of his neck prickled at the sudden approach of Occult energy, the faint taste of smoke and sulphur permeating the air. It was a surprisingly welcome scent; Enjolras had often wondered where the demon had gone after their conversation in Punt, and had hoped at some point to run into her again. She was an interesting individual, and for all she was supposed to be his enemy, and for all she’d somehow managed to infuriate him every time they’d spoken, it was nice to have someone around who knew who and what he was.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?" Letting the scroll roll itself back up, Enjolras turned to look up at Grantaire where she draped herself deliberately against one of the shelves. She looked the same as ever, her expressive face curled up in a sly smile, though tension rested at the corner of her dark eyes, in the set of her shoulders. Her hair curled haphazardly down her back, over the pale fabric of -

"Isn't that a men's chiton?" Enjolras asked frowning. Grantaire grinned wider, teeth white against brown skin. 

"Yep." She raised her eyebrows at him challengingly. "You should see how mad it makes 'em." Amused despite himself, he smiled begrudgingly back at her. "I see you found a gender." She looked him over as he shrank back a little, self conscious. 

"Yes. Male seemed to be the best option, considering..."

"Considering the second-class citizenship bestowed on everyone unfortunate enough to be born with a vagina? Yeah."

The treatment of women in Athens was something that filled Enjolras with something worryingly close to divine wrath if he thought about it for too long. There was a small sect of women who came by every week for copies of books which Enjolras smuggled out to them, and a couple of scholars disguised as men who he aided in keeping suspicion away from.

He had wanted to help them more, to offer real lessons or to try and convince the other scholars that the women of the city deserved knowledge as well, but they had laughed at him kindly and explained that it would never work, and besides, the books that he had given them reached far more people than just them - their friends with stricter husbands, their older relations, the girl children in their care. It was an old system, and it worked. He played his part and they were grateful, but they did not need more from him. 

"What about you?" Enjolras asked, watching Grantaire sideways as he tidied up some of the papers scattered over his desk. 

"Me?" She snorted derisively. "No one touches me if I don't want them to." Enjolras eyed her warily. "Oh, stop worrying! No-one gets hurt." She paused for dramatic effect, then cheekily added,  "Mostly." 

"Hmm." He hadn't really been worried - he trusted Grantaire, for the most part - after all, she had helped him the last time they had run into one another, and that was _after_ he had smote her. Besides, Grantaire seemed far more the type to make someones life a misery to teach them a lesson than to commit murder, and anyone going around laying their hands on people without their permission probably deserved whatever she gave them. 

Standing up to stretch the lethargy from his limbs, he watched as she absently picked up a scroll to scan through. 

"What brings you here?" He asked, resting his palms on the table, smoothing his fingers absent mindedly along the grain. 

“Oh, you know,” Grantaire said airily. “Rumours of angelic going’s on. Orders to _prevent_ said angelic going’s on. Honestly, I would have left it alone save for a few demonic wiles to balance things out a bit if it hadn’t been for the other rumours of a god in human form hanging around blessing people left and right. A tad conspicuous, I must say but who am I to judge?”

 “Excuse me?” Enjolras said incredulously. “What god?” He hadn’t heard anything about a god hanging around Athens, and even if there was, he failed to see what that had to do with him. Grantaire blinked at him, nonplussed for half a second, before realisation crossed her face and she straightened properly for the first time, abandoning the papers she’d been absently looking through.

“What g - _you_ , you colossal dunce! Honestly, did you think hanging around the corner of a library for decades would go unnoticed? Humans aren’t blind, for all they can be a bit thick, and that’s without you handing out favours to anyone with a sob story! They all think you’re Apollo in disguise!” She had the gall to look amused about it all, as though the idea of him being mistaken for a god was her idea of a good joke.

Enjolras stared at her, mouth hanging open, until he finally gathered his wits enough to sputter

“ _What_? Thats - that’s ridiculous! Apollo, of all the - wait, what to you mean, _decades_? I haven’t been here for decades, it’s been months at most! I only started in the beginning of summer it hasn’t - I haven’t -“ It couldn’t have been that long, that was preposterous. He may have gotten a bit distracted but there was no way he’d lost years, that wasn’t possible. So he hadn’t been outside for a while, and maybe the other scholars had changed a bit more than was usual for humans in such a short amount of time but - but -

“Enjolras,” Grantaire interrupted, eyebrows high in disbelief, “When did you last go outside? Or eat? Or - do anything other than read?” Sinking back into his chair, Enjolras shook his head, mind spinning.

“I - I’m not sure.” Decades. That was - a whole mortal lifespan that he hadn’t noticed passing. That _no one_ had noticed passing, if the lack of visits from head office were anything to go by. Or maybe they had noticed and simply didn’t care so long as the right miracles were being performed. Icy fingers curled around Enjolras’ grace; it was one thing to theorise that no one really cared about you. It was quite another for them to prove it.

“Enjolras?” And then the very worst thing was that, of all people to come looking, to show the slightest bit of interest in his well being, it was the very demon he was supposed to be at war with. The demon currently watching him with an expression worryingly close to _concern_ of all things.

Enjolras couldn’t help but hate Grantaire a little, in that moment. For being the one to force him confront uncomfortable truths, time and time again, and then for having the gall to worry about him in a way that no one else ever seemed to.

“Well!” Enjolras said loudly, pushing away from his suddenly barren desk. “I suppose this is a valuable lesson in time management. It’s these new plays and novels, they suck you in far to easily.” Infuriatingly, Grantaire’s face hadn’t changed.

“Thank you for the information,” he continued stiffly, “I suppose I shall see you around.” Grantaire took a step back, finally.

“I’ll be off then.” She murmured, still eyeing him carefully. “Things to do. People to corrupt.” Abruptly, she shook herself, carefree smile sliding back into place like it had never left, wide and mischievous and full of dark intentions.

“See you around... Apollo.” She winked at Enjolras and was gone.

 

*It would be best to not make this comparison anywhere near the ears of an angel or a demon - they will most definitely take offense to being compared to amphibians.

**Ironically, any attempts to prove their differences usually boil down to destroying something the other side had spent ages building down on Earth, both failing to prove any difference whatsoever and setting everything back a few hundred years.

***Enjolras did not eat often, and when he did, he metabolized it so quickly that it never stood the slightest chance of giving him any adverse side affects. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras, surrounded by mountains of paper and books, hair 4 foot long, desk covered in dust: what do you MEAN I’ve been here for decades?  
> Grantaire, mildly concerned: 0_0


	5. Golgotha - 33AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The promised chat with ol’ JC himself. There’s some blood and gore in this one guys, but nothing super awful.

Grantaire was drunk. This wasn’t really surprising - Grantaire had been drunk many times since humans first invented alcohol, more so as they got better at it, but this state of inebriation was impressive even for him.

He started early that morning, when the bloodthirsty crowds first began to gather, when the jeers and screams first began to echo along the streets. He trailed after them like a ghost, a hateful spectre chained to the very worst of humanity, attempting to drown himself in the bottle he carried.

It was late evening, and most of the people were gone, save for the mourners and guardsmen, both standing in quiet vigil. Grantaire swayed on his feet, unseen by any of them, torn between his desire to leave and the guilt that urged him to stay.

Guilt had become a very old friend, in the past millennium.

Jesus Christ, the son of God, hung limply from his cross, naked skin smeared with blood. He could almost have been dead already, if not for the rasp of his breath.

The wine bottle was empty, and Grantaire couldn’t quite remember how to fill it back up again, so he let it drop thoughtlessly to the ground. It cracked, almost neatly, down the middle, exposing a hollow interior filled with shadows. The sound of it startled Christ, who jerked his head up, caught sight of Grantaire, and then smiled tiredly.

“Hello again.” He said quietly. Calmly. Grantaire blinked at him out of blurry eyes for a few moments, disbelieving, before laughter, bitter and half hysterical, wrested itself from his chest.

“Hello!” He said back, loud from the wine, as obnoxiously he’d ever been. “Lovely evening, isn’t it? Can’t say much for the location, I’ll admit, but that sunset?” He held out wobbly hands as if framing a portrait and whistled admiringly. “Gorgeous.” 

Christ’s smile widened slightly, showing of bloodstained teeth, and, without a hint of irony, he nodded in agreement.

“It was, rather.” Grantaire scoffed at him, at his sheer audacity; to be _serene_ at his own execution, to remark on the weather even as his voice shook from the pain- it was incredibly on brand, and Grantaire couldn’t help but sneer at it.

“So that’s it then? You dedicate your life to the salvation of humankind, right up until they decide you’re a heretic, and then you let them string you up for a painful death? What the _fuck_ was the point?”

“Does there have to be a point?” And that, more than anything, pissed Grantaire off, because there was always a point with Heaven, always a plan, whether it involved murder or genocide or martyrdom. Grantaire fixed Christ with a look that very well conveyed how much he wasn’t in the mood for philosophy tonight, and Chirst sighed and relented, breath wheezing.

“Alright,” he murmured. He paused, seemingly to organise his thoughts or possibly to attempt to push past the pain he had to be feeling, before he admitted hoarsely, “It’s for them. For my children.” His throat moved, a fractured swallow. “I’m dying for them, suffering in their name, so that that don’t have to.” Grantaire stared at him.

“ _What_?” He meant to shout it, but it came out cracked and gravelly. His head pounded from dehydration and the ground spun underneath his feet, and he did not understand what he had just been told. Christ looked at him steadily with his dark, ancient eyes, and he wasn’t smiling any more.

“It was always going to end this way, Grantaire. You need to know that. One man, no matter how blessed, could never change the entire world alone. I have spread my word, given them my love, and now, I will give them my life, for whatever it is worth. My pain is payment, for their sins. Through me, they will know paradise, even those who would reject it. Dying is a small price for their salvation.”

Which - of all the horrors of the evening, that, above all else, seemed unbearable to Grantaire. The steady drip of blood, the terrible calmness of Christ’s words, the fact that he seemed so accepting of this situation, as if he were not the very best of humanity, as if he somehow thought that he had _earned_ this torment.

“Why?” He gasped the word, throat locked tight and painful around anything louder. “Why would you do this? They don’t deserve it.” His face was wet, he realised distantly through the fog of alcohol and he scrubbed uselessly at his leaking eyes. There was Earth under his legs as well, gritty and cold, though he didn’t remember sitting down.

“Don’t they?” He still sounded _gentle_ , of all things, like he was imparting wisdom on a child in the street.

“No.” It came out hard and fast, more certain than anything else Grantaire had said that evening. Because he knows people, better than anyone else. He’s been around ever since they were created, he’s watched them for thousands of years, all the ways they’ve grown and all the ways they haven’t, and they don’t deserve this. And maybe that’s his fault, maybe that’s on him, for the Garden and everything that came after, but maybe it isn’t.

He has a system, alright? He worked it out early on, when humans had only colonised one tiny corner of the globe, he figured out how strife and misery worked, the best ways to sow it, to watch it spread. He puts a little pain out into the world - not much, a small amount, like a paper cut on the cosmic scale of shittiness and says, here, this is yours now, do what you like with it. Because that’s the thing about pain, you can take it and hang on to it and use it as a weapon on everyone around you or you can let it go, leave it lying in the dirt like every other ugly thing and move on. It’s a choice, at the end of the day, one that Grantaire gives every time he causes strife, because that’s the least he can do, after everything. And so often, so, so often, humans choose wrong.

They make wars and take slaves, abandon babies on hillsides for the crime of daring to be born weak. Women waste away in service of men who beat them, who see them as nothing but vessels for their sons when they are so much more than that, and boys die for kings who care nothing for their lives, only for the wealth they can buy with spilled blood. Grantaire has seen countless horrors in his existence, and still he finds himself caught horribly by surprise at the number of petty, spiteful things that humans are capable of every day, all on their own.

“Maybe not.” Christ allowed, and his breaths are weaker now, his heartbeat slower. “But perhaps I want to save them anyway.” And he met Grantaire’s eyes and smiled once more. “And I think you do too.”

Grantaire snorted wetly, involuntarily. He shuffled over until his back met wood, propped himself up on the base of the cross, and it amused him a little, the visual of it all. The demon, crouching at the feet of the Son of God. If this were a painting he’d probably be on fire, smote down by a man who is strong and terrible even as he dies. Instead, there is just him, drunk and tired, keeping vigil over his enemy while he chats to him like they’re old friends.

“I think you’ve been hanging there too long.”

“The last time we met, you showed me all the kingdoms of the world. Why did you do that?” Grantaire rubbed at his eyes again, tears dried to salty crust on his cheeks.

“I was doing my job.” The stars glitter above them, remote and beautiful. Grantaire remembered helping to make them, cupping fledgling nebulas in vast hands, blowing gently on new flames to help them ignite. He idly wondered if they missed him.

“Your job was to tempt me away from my Father. I don’t think a geography lesson was truly necessary for that.” Grantaire swallowed, throat dry, unable to bring himself to respond. “I think you wanted to give me a choice - a real choice. That you wanted me to know everything that I could about the world and it’s people before making it. I think that you wanted to be _fair_.”

There’s a silence after that, not uncomfortable, but loaded with unspoken words, because Jesus is right, but not in any way that Grantaire can admit to. It’s already strange enough, the two of them together, opposite ends of the scale that begins with ‘saviour’ and ends with ‘monster’. He’d call it a miracle if he believed in that sort of thing.

Eventually, as morning crept ever closer and death stood tall at the corner of their eyes, waiting patiently to do his job, Christ spoke again, softly.

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one this time, but one I’m pretty proud of. I wanted to write this from the beginning, so I hope you enjoyed. Sorry for the lack of Enjolras. edit: I fixed the weird jump into present tense! Sorry about that, anyone who read it earlier.


	6. Rome - 137 AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two wild Amis appear, Enjolras sorts his shit out and Grantaire has Many Regrets. Enjoy!

Rome, for Enjolras, was a study in contradictions. He loved it for the order it established, the laws put in place that protected its people, the universities dedicated to the study of art and science and philosophy, the architecture that combined beauty with practicality, the cobbled streets and effective sewer system, the aqueducts that carried fresh water, the bath houses that encouraged public hygiene.

He also hated it, for the way it had been built, funded by warfare and powered by slaves, the way it subjugated those considered ‘lesser’ by the empire, the way education only truly made its way to the most privileged, the way regular people could findthemselves inside a colosseum, eagerly anticipating bloodshed in the name of entertainment, the way the ruling class clung to power at the expense of the common people.

Somehow, it was both civilised and barbaric, enlightened and ignorant, and Enjolras often found himself both awed and enraged by it in equal measure.

In the beginning, he had tried to use miracles to improve things, to nudge the Senate into improving things for more than just themselves for once, but had been forced to use so many to make even the slightest bit of headway, that he had attracted the attention of his higher-ups in Heaven, who had sternly reminded him that he was not permitted to interfere with mortal affairs without express orders, and then asked if perhaps he might enjoy a break from the corruption of Earth in a way that felt more than a little threatening.

After that, Enjolras took far more care. He had long since come to terms with the fact that Heaven did not truly care about the people on Earth - they simply wanted to be able to check a certain number of souls off their list and keep things moving smoothly towards Judgment Day at the pace that they wanted it to. Humans on an individual level meant nothing to them - oh, they would profess unconditional divine love for humanity until they were blue in the face, but never would they deign to lower themselves to actually interact with them.

It was amusing, in a dark sort of way, the parallels that Enjolras could draw between the way both Rome and Heaven operated. 

Later, he decided that maybe it was for the best that his attempts at influence had been curbed; success orchestrated by a higher power was not really success at all, and who was to say that Enjolras knew best? Human he was not, and even Angels made mistakes, although it was rare for them to admit it, like that time he thought he might like to try his hand at owning a goat.*

If he could not make things better without resorting to the use of miracles to erase free will, then he was nothing more than yet another puppet master, exerting his will over others. He swore then that he would not fall into old traps and habits - he would be better than that.

Humans, he believed, had the capacity to make the world better for themselves. All they needed was a little help - real help, that encouraged them to find their ownsolutions, forge their own destinies. Enjolras wanted to be that help, though he knew it would be hard, thankless work, filled with mistakes and setbacks. It had been a long and bitter process, realising the flaws and corruption of Heaven and its soldiers, the part he had played in being one of them. This, he had decided, was his true purpose on Earth, and he threw himself into it wholeheartedly.

The first thing that he realised was that his attentions had been focused on the wrong people. Those in power would do their utmost to remain there, at the expense of everyone else. Indeed, they had gained their status though the subjugation of others and maintained it the same way, which was frustrating in the worst sort of way, as they had the potential for immediate change, if they could only be swayed towards basic human decency.

But of all the things that Enjolras had ever been, a quitter was not one of them. Stubbornness had served him well over the years, and he had once been a warrior. If you were losing a battle, you switched tactics; he needed to find a new audience, one more receptive to ‘radical’ ideas.

Really, it was the incessant comments about young people that inspired him - clearly he was not the only one with radical ideas if so many of the older generation felt the need to complain about it.**

Which was how he found himself posing as a student in Rome, both to satisfy his own desire for new knowledge (philosophy especially had become a deep and abiding love of his) and to hopefully aid the newest generation of intellectuals in their pursuits.

It was infinitely more rewarding than his previous attempts; students were delighted by anything novel, drawn to new ideas and aching for the chance to prove themselves. They were none of them perfect, and many shared their parents unfortunate opinions, but nevertheless, Enjolras found himself thriving in his new environment, truly happy for the first time in centuries.

University also served as something of a safeguard - after the disaster that was his loss of time in Athens, Enjolras took special care not to let time run away with him again, and being so completely surrounded by people enthusiastically seizing life by the horns made itvery easy to stay firmly in the present.

These, Enjolras felt, were his people, bright eyed and hopeful, thirsty for information and full of life. Each new student he was able to help brought him great joy, and soon he found himself with his first true friends. Cassius and Cletus were childhood companions who had followed each other to university, Cassius to study medicine and Cletus for the fun of it, and they had swiftly adopted Enjolras as their own.

 

“It has come to my attention,” announced Cletus loudly, “that we have not gone out drinking together for an obscenely long time.” Enjolras and Cassius, who had been enjoying a quiet and friendly debate about whether faith belonged in a healing environment, exchanged a long-suffering look.

“Cletus,” Cassius began reasonably, “my dear friend, that’s because _every_ night out with you inevitably ends in doom and disaster.”

Gasping in outrage, Cletus clutched dramatically at his chest.

“Lies! Lies and slander - and from you, my closest confidante, my oldest ally, this is a _betrayal_ , how _could_ you -“

“Are you finished?” Enjolras interrupted, smiling despite himself. He had melted forwards in the afternoon heat, arms crossed on the table, chin resting on his wrists. Cletus huffed at him but subsided, slumping down onto an empty chair.

“Come oooooon, you two!” He whined. “We are young! We should be kings of the night! Lords of wine and revelry!” He adopted a tragic countenance, hands clasped in front of pleading eyes, hair drooping forlornly. “Shall we fall prey to age before our time? Wrinkled and weary, wasting away in dusty corners, made dull and dreary in the absence of sunlight? Doomed to never again taste fresh air?”

“Cletus, we’re outside!” Cassius half-shouted, though he was grinning helplessly, and Enjolras pressed his mouth against the inside of his arms to muffle his laughter. He loved them both, these two, more than he had perhaps loved anything else in his existence. It crept up on him, sometimes, this fierce devotion that was somehow worth more than anything else in his life.

Cletus groaned.

“How on earth did I wind up with two stodgy old men as my best friends?” He asked sadly of the empty air.

“Yes, funny that you should end up close to the people that you’ve followed around for years like an attention-starved duckling.” Cassius agreed wryly, swatting Cletus’ curly head with a scroll. “And it isn’t going out that we have an objection against, it’s going out with _you_.”

“Yeah,” agreed Enjolras. “Or did you forget that we got banned from that bar after that time you decided to re-enact the Lysistrata?”

“The Lysistrata is an underrated play!” Protested Cletus, waving his arms around wildly. “It demonstrates the power of the people! The futility of war!”

“The Greek’s unfortunate love of dick jokes,” Cassius said dryly.

Cletus pouted at him.

“Those jokes are historic _masterpieces_ , and you both know it.”

“Not when it’s just you on a table with a spoon shoved under your toga.” Both Cassius and Enjolras winced at the memory. Cletus crossed his arms and slumped down in his chair to properly sulk.

Enjolras made a valiant attempt to ignore him for several minutes, and very almost succeeded. He side-eyed Cletus, who looked properly miserable now, rather than just faux-sad, glanced at Cassius, who already looked resigned to their inevitable fate, and sighed.

“What did you have in mind?” He asked, defeated. Cletus beamed.

 

The bar that Cletus dragged them too was relatively clean but newly opened, and therefore not yet overly busy. They served food as well as drinks, much to Cassius’ relief,*** though he seemed mildly worried about what the quality of said food might be, thanks to past experiences that left him more intimately acquainted with a toilet than anyone wants to be.

“You have eaten here before, haven’t you?” He muttered to Cletus after they had claimed a table.

“Yes!” Cletus said impatiently, still smiling far too smugly at his perceived victory. Cassius relaxed marginally. “I think.” He added, because he also wasn’t a liar.

“You _think_?! What do you _mean, you think_?!”

“Well, I went to a lot of bars that night! But I only ate at one of them, and I’m almost certain it was this one.” Cassius let out an aggrieved moan, rubbing at his temples.

“Why did I agree to this?” He asked himself despairingly.

Enjolras, however, found himself distracted, both from his bickering friends and the possibility of food poisoning, by the sight of a familiar head of dark curls sitting at the near end of the bar, bowed morosely over a cup of wine. He frowned, craning his neck to try and get a better look.

“Grantaire?” He asked, without thinking, stunning Cassius and Cletus into silence behind him. Grantaire peered around, cup lifted halfway to his mouth, and blinked at him with surprised recognition.

 _He looks exhausted_ , thought Enjolras, with some surprise. He’d seen Grantaire angry and drunk and contemplative and antagonistic. He’d never expected to see him look weary.

“Hello there Apollo.” Grantaire said, saluting him half heartedly with his wine. “It’s been a while.” He took a long draught.

“Apollo?” Asked Cassius, because he was confused.

“ _Apollo_?” Asked Cletus, because he was nosy.

“Apollo,” agreed Grantaire, because he was apparently still a little shit. Enjolras rolled his eyes at all three of them, already deeply regretting opening his mouth.

“Please stop calling me that,” he said, unhopefully. He should have known that that particular name would stick. Grantaire flashed him his signature grin, though it looked a little worn at the edges.

“And miss out on seeing you embarrassed? No chance.”

“Ooh, embarrased?” Cletus cut in, leaning forward eagerly. “I sense a story there.”

“Not one that needs telling!” Enjolras said loudly, though the sinking feeling in his gut told him that he probably shouldn’t hold out any hope of escaping this conversation with his dignity intact.

“I don’t know, Enj, I think we deserve it for you not telling us about your friend.” Cassius leaned backwards and took a nonchalant sip of wine. Enjolras stared at him, betrayed. Grantaire had the gall to laugh, eyes shining a little brighter, and he moved to sit properly at their table.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that we’re exactly friends.” His mouth had a sly curve to it that Enjolras definitely didn’t like the look of. It somehow managed to remind him of every humiliating experience he’d ever had. “Friends don’t usually run away from each other.”

“When have I ever ran away from you?” Enjolras asked indignantly. Grantaire raised his eyebrows at him until he stopped and thought about it, which - maybe he had a point. Enjolras felt his face heat uncomfortably, and he drew himself up with as much dignity as he could muster.

“That - that - I wasn’t running away from you!” Was all he managed, sounding irritatingly unconvincing even though it was the truth. “I just - I had places to be!” Grantaire hummed dubiously into his wine.

“Of course.” He said solemnly. “And the time before those, when you attacked me, you surely also had places to -“

“I already apologised for that!” Cried Enjolras, feeling increasingly harassed. “And you were fine, anyway!”

Grantaire pressed a hand to his heart, and said, convincingly choked-up,

“Physically, yes, but - my _feelings_ were hurt, Apollo.” He hiccuped in a way that could almost be mistaken for genuine if not for the glint in his eye. “I was _devastated_ , you were so _mean_ to me!”

“I was wrong,” Cassius muttered to Cletus without taking his eyes off the spectacle in front of him. “Coming out tonight was a great idea.” Cletus nodded vigorously.

“I had no idea Enjolras had such a violent streak.” He agreed quietly. Enjolras whipped his head around to glare at him, though it was somewhat ruined by the impressive colour of his cheeks; almost magenta even through the brown of his skin.

“I’m not - it wasn’t -“ he ran his hands through his hair, breathing hard through his nose in an attempt to calm down. Grantaire snickered at him but relented.

“Relax, Apollo, before you give yourself an injury.” He downed the rest of his drink. “Besides, I must be off. Things to do.” There was an odd twist to his mouth as he spoke that caught Enjolras’ attention. He was reminded abruptly of Grantaire’s despondency earlier that evening that had first attracted his attention, and he stretched out a hand to snag Grantaire’s wrist as he passed, suddenly concerned.

“Are you alright?” He asked. The demon blinked down at him, eyes wide, mouth half open. “Grantaire?” Enjolras pressed, worried by the lack of answer. He remembered the pain that had flashed across Grantaire’s face back in Punt, the way the demon had so swiftly withdrawn from him when reminded of painful memories. Perhaps something had happened recently to upset him once more. Grantaire seemed to shake himself, pulling a smirk onto his face, stepping backwards, out of Enjolras’ reach.

“I’m fine Apollo. Just need to clear my head.”He nodded politely at Cassius and Cletus, and vanished into the night.

“Well!” Said Cletus. “He was interesting.” His dimples were out in full force, smiling so widely that it looked like it hurt.

“That’s one word for him.” Enjolras agreed, forcing his focus back to his friends, and settled back down so that they could interrogate him properly.

 

Outside, pressed back against the wall, Grantaire ran trembling fingers over his too-warm wrist, unable to shake off the memory of warm blue eyes and flushed cheeks and a conversation that for once hadn’t ended in anger or disappointment. _Oh_ , he thought to himself, with dawning horror. _Oh shit_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

*Enjolras still wasn’t sure how the goat had escaped so quickly, but the women next door had been very nice about the whole thing, even if he did have to pay to replace their bread. And their rug. And their laundry.

 

**Some things in this world never change - the sky is blue, water is wet, and there is always something wrong with young people these days, at least according to the elderly.

 

***an unfortunate side effect of Cletus’ spontaneity was a frequent lack of planning, which far too often resulted in a very hungry, very exasperated Cassius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras: Grantaire seems Sad maybe I should talk to him? Maybe he hates the way things are too? I shall have to think on it some more...  
> Grantaire: OH SHIT OH FUCK HES HOT AND HE WAS NICE TO ME OH NO SHIT FUCK THIS IS TERRIBLE


End file.
